Work Text:
Gondolin, owing to its location in northern Beleriand, had cold winters. It was strange for many, because the summers were warm and when the inhabitants of the city went out into the green fields outside the walls in high summer, the heat from the sun was what Men might call ‘scorching’. To have the same green fields white like the city’s marble months later, was for some too much. They never learned how to adopt to the weather.
One of them happened to be lord of the city and foremost among those who felt too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter, was lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower. In summer he could be seen wearing a cloak meant for wet spring-weather, and in winter low shoes meant for dancing on feasts in Turgon’s halls. He would have been a laughingstock, had he lacked a spirited and charming personality. Instead of laughing at him, people simply shook their heads and smiled just a little when he went by.
The one elf in the city who did laugh at him and made him fully aware just how hopeless he seemed, was lord Ecthelion of House of the Fountain. He would sit in a tavern with lord Rog, of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, and snicker as he told his friend about lord Glorfindel’s choice of clothing that day. When Glorfindel was present he would mock him in that sharp way of his, but lord Glorfindel would only smile and either look amused or act playful, as if he thought it a game they played.
One winter, Ecthelion sat with Rog in the empty tavern, except the barmaid who lazily cleaned some tables, and told him:
“Today lord Glorfindel thought it fitting to wear a linen shirt – linen! The snow is at its thickest and not even the King can fully warm his halls, and here comes the lord of the Golden Flower and wears linen! He has a wool cloak, admittedly, but he wraps it around himself so that he looks like a bundle with golden hair sticking out on the top, it’s ridiculous. But just yesterday, he wore silk underwear and- “
Rog had not listened closely, because Ecthelion could talk a ridiculous amount about Glorfindel, but here he stopped and interrupted suddenly:
“What do you know about the lord’s underwear?”
Ecthelion blinked for a second, unable to understand what he had just said, then turned an unusual shade of red, one Rog had never seen on him before, because the sharp lord of the fountain did not blush-
*
As that scene unfolded under the snow-covered roofs in the city, a conversation was being held in the palace, between the brave lord Galdor of the Tree and the King, in the King’s private quarters. A fire was roaring to keep the room warm, all doors were closed to not let it out, but the bedcovers were lying on the floor, thrown there in a moment of hurry. Clothes, too, lay discarded on the floor, and the lord and King lay bare on the soft sheets.
They had been loud, before, but now they were quiet for a long time, only the sound of the fire and their breathing filling the room. One of lord Galdor’s fingers were playing with some tresses of black hair as he looked at Turgon’s face, which slowly lost its blush as his heart began beating normally. Galdor’s own hair, which was dark brown and in his opinion, rather too normal, was spread wildly around his head and if Turgon had opened his eyes he would certainly be playing with or staring at it similarly to Galdor. But his eyes remained closed, though there was a smile on his lips showing his satisfaction.
Now, around the same time Rog realised what lord Ecthelion had said, Galdor broke the silence and said:
“The snow will be falling heavier tonight.”
The King hummed, not reacting much to the statement. Galdor did not expect him to – he did not care much for the snow, except how it might affect the city and its governing.
“I think your daughter asked Glorfindel to take her out,” he continued and Turgon opened his eyes and looked at him, mind still in that pleasant afterglow.
“She could not go herself?” he asked and Galdor shook his head. He sat up and leaned on the bedframe. Turgon followed the movement with his eyes and lingered on the strong chest that he could now easily trace the lines of. He knew them well at this point, but still.
“She insisted on Glorfindel coming with, I believe,” Galdor told him with a little smile.
“With a sleigh, I assume?”
A chuckle, “oh, yes.”
Turgon moved his hand underneath his head and turned so he could look at the other better.
“You did not save him from it, did you?”
“If I had, I would not be here,” Galdor grinned.
The King reached for the other’s hand and held it, looking it over as if searching for something. He found it on the palm – a scar running from between the index and middle finger to the beginning of the wrist. It was old and faded and the only reason it could still be seen was because it had been deep. Turgon remembered vividly how it came to be there, or at least told himself he did. The memories of it was in fact hazy and unclear, but so were all from Helcaraxë. Though that it had been a huge white bear, he knew for certain.
“There are certainly no ice bears out there, so I felt quite safe in letting her go with lord Glorfindel,” Galdor said, knowing what was in Turgon’s thoughts.
“No,” the King said, “I would not build a city in a place where they could live.”
“They would make nice prey,” Galdor said, half a joke, half serious.
“As would we, for them,” Turgon only said back, though with no real heat in it.
“Do you think the snow will last?” Galdor said, changing the subject slightly.
“Probably, yes, as it does every year,” Turgon sighed. “The only thing I miss about this season is my sister’s constant pacing from being kept inside for so long. Not even riding the sleigh with Itarillë did her any good.”
A shadow came over his face, ridding him of the last drop of pleasant bliss, and had Galdor been inexperienced of the King’s mind, he would have despaired and thought it impossible to rid Turgon of that sad reminder. But he was not, and therefore he knew Aredhel would be a passing worry, for despite her younger age Turgon thought her capable and did not fear overmuch for her safety, just hoping for her safe return.
“Neither did it you, I believe,” Galdor said and let his hand card through the black hair, away from the serious face. “Holed up in either a council room or the library for months, only coming out when your daughter or sister convinced you.”
“Or you,” Turgon reminded him and leaned his head against the hand, clearly enjoying it, “you dragged me out with them on the sleigh, I remember. Even in Vinyamar.”
For a moment, the King smiled at the memory, but then he remembered a similar scene and his eyes dimmed again. Galdor felt something twist inside him.
“Elenwë did the same,” Turgon said and looked away, to the fire. His voice was low, as it always was when his wife was mentioned and Galdor now felt fear rise up along with a mix of other emotions – pity, struggling acceptance, sadness, something bitter.
“She always managed to make me come out when I needed to.”
Then the King looked at Galdor with a tender, sad smile and seemed to say: just like you. The Lord of the Tree smiled back and cradled the other’s head gently in his hand, but thought on the inside: what does that mean?
*
The Lord of the House of the Golden Flower entered the tavern with a face red from the snow outside, hair wild and free from the wind, and the warm memory from the day before, or rather the night. He did not expect the crowd inside to turn to him with wide eyes, slightly gaping. He was foolishly dressed, but it was not new that he lacked the ability to clothe himself according to the weather, but then he saw Ecthelion by a table and they locked eyes, as they always did as soon as one of them entered a room.
Oh, Glorfindel thought, somehow knowing.
“Did that sharpness of yours finally sabotage for you?” he said, loud enough for the whole tavern, which was now full, to hear. He expected Ecthelion to groan, to be embarrassed, but the lord of the Fountain had sat there for hours and had endured Rog’s questioning and the others’ astonishment and teasing and had figured out a way for him to save face. And so he answered, grinning sweetly:
“No, but for us.”
“Really?” Glorfindel said, stopping in his tracks, surprised. What did that mean-
“Now if you come here, we can tell the rest of the lords about that wonderful night we had just yesterday-“
A wave of protest came from Ecthelion’s companions by the table and Glorfindel felt like a sun rose inside his chest. Not that he would like Rog to know just what they had been up to, but what it implied … He remembered the wind in his face just an hour ago, sitting on a sleigh, and the wish that Ecthelion could have joined him and the similar wish he had had that morning at breakfast, wishing he would not have to eat alone.
Without a second thought he walked up to Ecthelion, grabbed his shirt, and yanked him up and, in the middle of the tavern, in front of everybody, kissed him thoroughly. Rog groaned loudly, but the two lords did not hear nor heed him.
Outside, snow was falling as night entered the valley. It filled it with silence and peace and made it feel untouched. Inside houses candles and fireplaces spread light and warmth, though the streets of the city were lay in darkness and silence. The lord Galdor walked the streets of the city, leaving footprints in the perfect snow, head filled with deep thoughts, each one heavier than the last. As stars slowly lit up the dark sky above him like jewels in a vaulted ceiling though, he looked up as snowflakes landed softly in his hair. The stars were different from the ones he remembered from when he was young, far away in Aman, but the sight of them still brought him to a halt. Thoughts about the King, about Elenwë and that hole in her husband’s heart, and his own role in the little play between all three of them, despite one being dead, they disappeared. And finally he thought nothing.